


At the Water’s Edge

by mingles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Character Death, Creepy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Horror, Psychological Torture, Scary Dean Winchester, Violence, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mingles/pseuds/mingles
Summary: The boys investigate a case located in a town called Westerfell following the disappearances of ten people from a log cabin out in the woods. But there's a lake near the cabin, dark and deep, and there's something profoundly strange about it. Wrong - like it doesn't belong in their world, and the longer they're around it, the quicker they begin to realize that Dean isn't quite himself anymore.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. The Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any inconsistencies with my work and the show. Also, a warning that this fic may get pretty gnarly, so stick around if you're into that.

The gravel crunches below the wheels of the impala, rounding into a wide, patted-out area in which sits a two-story cabin. It’s walls are fashioned from logs, daubed green from climbing moss and rot. A small porch extends from the front door and ends in a set of steps, sinking beneath their own weight, dirtied by repeated use. A door and window mesh into the woodwork, worn down by time.

A lamp hangs freely by the door. It isn’t lit on account of it being mid-day, the sunlight splitting through the few trees that hem in around the cabin. A warm gust of wind enters the impala then, prompting Dean to climb out of his jacket. He throws it somewhere behind him, which, coincidentally, is at Castiel’s head. 

Cas, looking exasperated, quickly peels it off.

The area is more or less secluded, save for the few animals that are relative to Arkansas, parting through the wet, green foliage that reaches beyond the cabin. It isn’t dark, but the light is a little more speckled here.

When the engine to the impala cuts, Sam spares Dean a weary look. They’ve stayed in motel rooms before, but never some spooky, ramshackle cabin out in the woods. Dean returns the grim expression. It was never his idea to camp out in it in the first place. It had been Sam who’d picked up on the case and subsequently catapulted them into the car, refusing to say anything until they reached the property. Cas had appeared half-way, in a gathering of wind and general speechlessness, in the backseat of the impala. They hadn’t questioned it.

Without a word, they sling their backpacks over their shoulders and approach the cabin, easing up the steps to the porch. They creak so loudly that Dean thinks he might plunge through them. Cas seemingly finds interest in this and stops briefly to inspect them.

Sam unsheathes a key and, very slowly, glides it into the lock, a billow of old air rolling out from inside the main portion of the cabin. The smell is strong, pungent, resembling that of an old folks home, and Dean plugs up his nose as he enters, being wary so as not to disturb the dust that clings to the furniture. Another uneasy look from Sam, who is now standing deeper in the living room, appraising it pointedly.

Two retro-looking couches frame an old television, one that needs stubby wooden legs to stand, a rug laying flat beneath it. A fire place, ashy and forgotten, sits hollowed out in the wall, the remnants of a log still in it’s hearth. Dean takes a second step inside and folds his arms over his chest. He looks towards the kitchen that’s stowed away in the corner of the cabin, a table and chairs next to it, and a study desk, unsteady, situated near the front door. A picture frame perches on top of it, an image of a diner, black and white, neatly fitted inside, though the photograph is yellowed and wrinkled at the corners. Another picture, this time on the logged wall, hangs adjacent to the couch. It’s of a girl posing in front of a Volkswagen.

A staircase, snug against the cabin, leads up to the second floor.

“Well isn’t this just quaint. Can’t wait to unpack my doilies and turntable, I bet it’ll fit right in,” Dean says, at last, flinging his bag to the ground. It lands with a thud, a cloud of dust following with it, curling into the air. Dean can see almost every particle as it moves in the sunlight, seeping through the stained glass windows.

Sam humphs and makes an effort of separating the curtains, allowing the light to skewer the room more thoroughly. There are four windows in total, some positioned either side of the cabin. A carving of sunlight glares Dean in the face as Sam displaces them, inching the glass up. It’s almost hot, and Dean wonders how they’re going to operate without air conditioning.

Castiel’s frown materializes then. “I don’t believe you own a turntable, Dean, and I doubt it would fit inside your bag.” He casts his eyes down to the bag slumped by Dean’s muddied boots, musing. Dean doesn’t have the energy to correct him, so he nods.

“You’re right. There’s only room for plaid and self-deprecation in here.” He kicks heavily at his bag and watches as it rolls over, now smeared in dust. Sam, after brightening up the place, steps curiously into the kitchen. He runs the water, listening to it spiral down the drain, and rummages around for a glass in the upper cabinet.

More dust. Dean can’t seem to escape it. It wafts into the air as he slumps down on the couch, rolling out from behind the cushions, the old, spongy material he lies on. It isn’t comfortable, either, and he has to squirm around to find a stitch of pliancy. 

“Beats me why anyone would want to relive the 60‘s out in the middle of scenic nowhere,” he remarks, groping around for his phone and waving it like a war-torn flag upon discovery. “This is getting one star on my yelp review.”

Sam has abandoned the kitchen to rummage through the draws on the study desk, Cas clamped to his side. Their eyes sift and rove through contents that appear, unfortunately, less than interesting, drawing up blank when Sam slides it shut again.

“We’re not nowhere, we’re just an hour out of town. Some people like the privacy.” Sam brings the photograph of the diner up to examine, squinting at it, touching it. He blows on the frame to disperse the dust that rests there and sets it down again. Cas, who’s eyes are perpetually squinted, folds down to inspect it, too, and it’s as if it holds some secret meaning that Dean doesn’t know about.

The couch pops when Dean sits upright, moving his hands to his knees. “Right, which is French for ‘ _we don’t want anyone hearing us doing weird, kinky shit’_. What’s the bet that I’ll find a pair of handcuffs in the bedroom?” he asks. 

Castiel looks prepared to answer, but Sam interrupts him.

“Speaking of, there’s only two, so one of us will have to take the couch down here.” Sam flattens his mouth into an unimpressed line, surveying the room, waving away a sheet of dust made apparent by Dean’s constant moving against the couch. He coughs, which immediately garners Castiel’s attention, turning so suddenly that it has his coat swishing up around him.

Cas’ eyes are narrow as he peers between them. “Well, on the basis that I don’t sleep, I suppose I can take the couch,” he says dryly, absently, not really paying attention. He tilts his head upwards. “I can just look at the ceiling.” His eyes roam over what Dean can only speculate are tiny rifts and knots in the woodwork above them.

“With your eyes closed, if you don’t mind. It’s creepy seeing you unblinking in the dark,” Dean points out, roping a memory to the forefront of his mind and stamping it out again. Slowly, Cas pulls his gaze towards Dean, searching, his brow arched in a way that makes it look like he’s in desperate need of a toilet.

“But I don’t need to close my eyes.” His voice is steady.

Dean, feeling tired from the long drive over, climbs to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah I get that, Mr. Almighty Being of Light, but if you could just do it for me and my peace of mind, that would be great.” He maps his hands over his his shirt, his neck. It’s a little cooler now that the windows are open, and Dean’s thankful for it; the scent of damp earth in the air.

Eventually, they split off into their designated bedrooms. Dean scales the stairs first, listening to them sigh and shift, the wood arched beneath his boots, and he glances up at the breaches in the ceiling. They’re just open enough so that rainwater can seep through them when its storming, gathering on the steps below. He supposes that's why they’re so warped. Another squeak. Another song. When he reaches the second floor, he sighs, feeling relieved that he’d managed to journey them unscathed. Sam is right behind him, and he forks off into the direction of the bedroom on the left.

A small bathroom sits snugly between the two rooms. Dean briefly pokes his head inside but finds nothing of interest. A shower, a toilet, a basin and a long, fractured mirror. The light bulb blinks to life when he tugs on the pull-string, casting the room into a dark, sallow glow. The floor is tiled, which Dean is at least appreciative of.

His bedroom is - for lack of a better word - boxy, a mattress perched on a rusty metal frame eating up most of the room’s leeway. A narrow window is imprinted into the bed wall, crafted from what Dean can only suspect is timber, and an image of an ice-cream parlor hangs lopsided beneath it.

“Great. Just great,” he mutters darkly. 

The bedspread gathers around his bag when he pitches it at it, a plume of dust climbing out with it, too. There’s not much to pore over considering the room’s size, however, Dean’s attention is briefly captured by the curtains on the window. They’re stained with something he doesn’t recognize, scaling the patterned fabric.

Dean doesn’t want to unpack - so he doesn’t. He clambers back down the stairs, tuning out the curious murmurings that seemingly arise from the twisted wood, each step a new breath, a new gasp. Sam is already in the living room, arranging newspaper clippings on the kitchen table, which, incredibly, is also forged from old wood.

“You better tell me what this case is all about before I hang myself on the curtains in my room. Seriously, have some taste people,” Dean berates. He lands on the first floor with a creak. Castiel emerges from behind the front door then, a twig caught in his hair, his expression firm. He looks as though he’s already started searching for something, though Dean doesn’t know what.

The sound of insects outside deafens the cabin.

Sam reaches out for a clipping, presenting it eagerly. “Disappearances - over ten of them in the last year, all in the same area. This area.” He sets his laptop down and sifts through what’s strewn about on the table. “They did a sweep and no bones or bodies were ever found. They all just... vanished. The only thing the victims had in common was that they all stayed in this vacation rental,” Sam explains, moving his eyes between Dean and Cas. He peels back a leaf of newspaper that reads, **Cabin from HELL? Two more disappear from Westerfall area.**

Cas has his eyes finely pinned to the print, regarding it so vigorously that Dean’s afraid he might combust.

Dean steeples his hands beneath his chin. “What about the people leasing this place? They ever say anything about the disappearances?” he asks, roaming towards Sam’s open laptop, browsing the article left on display. Dean wonders how they even have WIFI out here. 

The article loosely covers the girls - who had last stayed at the cabin (three weeks ago) - and their whereabouts before they’d disappeared. Interestingly, it also discloses that their things were still inside and relatively untampered with when someone had come to scope and clean the place out.

“I don’t think so. It’s bad publicity. They just keep pushing it under the rug, pretending it never happened.” Sam inches in front of Dean and opens a second tab. “But I did do a background check on them and they look pretty clean. Plus they live out of state, which would make the disappearances tying back to them a little unlikely. That’s about as far as I’ve gotten, though.”

Dean sifts through the second article. It’s about a family who’d suffered the same fate as the girls, and seemingly everyone else before them.

Castiel unexpectedly parts them then, crushing himself between their shoulders. Dean looks at him, but it’s without luck, as Castiel appears incredibly unbothered by this. 

“Uh-” Dean starts.

“What about the land? Is it cursed? On top of an ancient burial ground?” Cas voices his thoughts, seemingly in order of how fast they crop up.

Dean, now reasonably weirded-out, pulls away, rubbing at his arm.

“I think that’s one too many re-watches of poltergeist, Cas,” he says, catching sight of the open window. It‘s warm and green outside. A bird flies past. “This place seems harmless. Maybe this isn’t our type of gig.”

Sam closes his laptop and sighs, one that’s short and dry. He looks fried. A pen hangs between his fingers, and an empty notebook - which sits open on the table - catches in the sunlight. Sam doesn’t want to phone it in. Not if someone really does need their help. It’s etched into his expression, in the way he musses his hair, eyes small and pleading. He looks at Dean and resigns to shaking his head.

“I’m not so sure. I don’t think these people are just running away into the sunset, Dean. Something weird is going on,” his tone remains decisively grim. Dean nods, turning to meander further into the cabin.

His back points towards Sam and Cas as he stoops down to paw at the television. He isn’t entirely convinced it’ll work, but at least it has an antenna. Dean prints his hand against it.

“Okay, well, I trust you,” he agrees softly. He eases up from his position to meet Sam, his hand pointing towards the mesh-screen door, which, courtesy of Castiel, has been left open. “How’s about we scope out the place and get a feel for it? Nice weather for it.” Dean briefly considers the old-timey room. “Maybe I should put on my coat and suspenders first, huh? Get my dress shoes out?”

A grin hangs on Dean’s mouth, though it isn’t met with any praise, and he grumbles, shooing the pair away. What do they know about humour, anyway? 

Sam keeps to gathering his things for the area sweep. “Maybe you should shut up,” he shrugs, and Castiel smiles. 

Dean isn’t amused by this.

The ground crumbles beneath their footing as they troop out into the foliage, which is largely made up of trees and compact shrubbery. It’s not so much a wooded area, but more swamp-like, rampant with weeds and pools of water. 

There isn’t much to consider out here. The sun splits through the monstrous trees and sections out shapes of light, warming the back of Dean’s neck. Castiel doesn’t appear all too enamored by the temperature either, seeing as though it attracts pesky, winged things. Remarkably, Sam still has signal on his phone, though this only dredges up more questions; why none of the vic’s had dialed for help when it was within reach. He checks it every so often, and Dean can only speculate it’s to make sure the reception stays put.

Despite everything, Dean doesn’t actually know what they’re looking for. They only have so much to go on, and everything else is a closed book. 

As they walk, his boots become muddied with wet dirt, and he grouses, shaking them out. This does little to ease his mood as they press into the vegetation, scoping the area out, expecting to find any indication that the girls - or anyone - were ever here. Sam appears about ready to rein it in when they suddenly encroach in on a clearing.

It’s a lake, large and marshy, it’s embankment paved in slime-smeared stones. The water is a stir of green and black, though just clear enough to spot the grot residing beneath it. A weeping tree branches out over it, sprawling, reaching, buried in a hairy moss.

Sam nears a wooden post that reads, **LAKE RED DEVIL**. He touches it, looking surprised.

“I didn’t know this was here,” he says, at last, weary from hiking. Dean slogs up behind him and looks out at it - it’s the stuff from nightmares. Nothing moves, and the quietness of it all leaves him unnerved.

“What’s the chances of them falling in and getting stuck? Maybe this was just a bunch of random drownings.” Dean shrugs. He kicks at a stone, watching as it disappears into the bog surrounding the lake. It looks thick, dense.

Cas inches closer to the lake’s edge, toeing at the marsh, contemplating it, and turns to squint up at them. “Unlikely. The mud around the lake is thick, but the water is relatively shallow. Judging by the stones visible beneath the surface, i’d say it would only come up to your shoulders,” he explains expertly. 

Sam’s frown deepens. “So not deep enough to kill.”

Dean watches as Cas clambers back up the embankment, his shoes hardened by mud, and he reaches out a hand for him to take. Cas takes it graciously, though not without letting out a squeak. “Maybe they were all really short,” Dean says. Sam makes a disapproving noise in his throat.

“Really, Dean?” he sighs, exasperated, and Dean throws his hands up.

“I’m just throwing suggestions out there! I don’t see any of you guys doing it,” he accuses. 

Apart from the seriously weird gut feeling Dean is sensing from the place, the area seems normal. No signs of witchcraft or ancient incantation recital in sight.

It’s not exactly what they’d expected to find.

Sam circles around, kicking at the long, weedy grass. “This place isn’t exactly the death trap I’d pictured. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence that proves anyone was here at all.”

Castiel cups a hand over his eyes and considers the compact shrubbery behind them, looping and springing into wide, papery fronds. He then glances up at the sun. “Perhaps they all died from exposure? The weather could’ve become humid enough to have left them disorientated and unable to find their way back to the cabin,” he says gravely. Dean doesn’t find it convincing, and by the look etched onto Sam’s face, he doesn’t either.

Dean claps his hands together, displacing the chilling silence that veils the lake, moving over the bog, the water. A nearby bird scrambles out of a tree and scurries away.

“No, it’s not that, and it’s not like the lake is far from the cabin. And why would they want to travel out into the woods anyway? _All_ of them? There’s nothing out here except the promise of being bitten by a thousand mosquitoes,” Dean points out, swatting at his arm. 

The sun is lowering now, the threat of night-fall beginning to inch up on them. It emerges in the bitterness of the wind and the sway of the leaves, the distant cry of an animal warbling nearby, and Sam stiffens, his hand landing on the knife tucked into his waistband. The water on the lake ripples with the passing breeze.

Sam retracts from his weapon, frowning. “Then where did everybody go?” he asks.

Dean doesn’t have a very good answer.

“Beats me,” he shrugs casually, passively, “probably some ugly thing living out here and eating them. We’ll have to dig up some dirt on this place, ask the locals what they know.”

Sam rolls back his jacket sleeve to consult the time on his watch. “Tomorrow. It’s starting to get late,” he says. Dean doesn’t argue this. He doesn’t like being anywhere near the brown, wet marsh - the lake. He folds his arm around Castiel’s shoulder and steers them away, and Cas, looking as steely as ever, appears a little surprised by this.

“Good plan,” Dean agrees, nodding over at Sam, who is now slogging behind them. He gently rustles the lapels on Castiel’s coat. “You ready for beans and fried egg, Cas?”

Cas swallows.

The wetlands are a welcoming sight as they slink back into it, carving through it, away from the discreet clearing. The prickled pads of every plant and thistle don’t seem so bad now, and Dean knows when to side-step the potholes.

It’s nearing 5PM when they straggle back towards the cabin, climbing the porch steps and holing themselves up inside.

Luckily, the electricity works without hitch. The lights zap and pop to life, blinking, attracting winged things, and the cabin creaks beneath their weight. Every time Dean stalks the length of the living room, or mounts the stairs, a new sound arises, crooning like a song. It doesn’t do much to soothe his unease of the place. 

Night approaches, and with that, the cold, plunging in around them, scaling the doors, the windows; the strange bleatings of things Dean doesn’t recognize moving through the wet undergrowth.

A pop sounds when he lights the burner and positions a frying pan over it. They have few things to eat, and will have to buy groceries when they inevitably head into town. A carton of eggs, courtesy of the cabin, have been left inside the fridge, and Dean figures they’re better off in their stomachs than in there. They sizzle when they hit the pan.

Sam is busying himself at the kitchen table, scouring through the internet on his laptop. Castiel, under Dean’s recommendation, is showering the sludge off his shoes, his coat. The sound of the pump accompanying it moves the cabin.

Crack. Another egg. They look alright to Dean, despite Sam looking very wary of them. Two cans of chili beans have also been rescued from the cabinet. Dean removes the lid and divvies out what he can, giving Castiel the least amount on account of him being inhuman.

Sam, who’s been scribbling things down, along-side gawking at his laptop, presses his pen down and sighs. “Maybe one of us should stay up tonight, keep an eye on the place. See if we can hear anything moving out there,” he suggests, garnering Dean’s attention, pointing at the window. The glass is now shut, but the curtains haven’t been drawn. It carves out a square of black; trees and brambles shaped against it, dotting the wet dirt.

Dean follows his hand but turns away. He flips an egg on the pan and watches as it crisps. 

“I think you’re overthinking this,” he shrugs. Castiel emerges from the bathroom then, steam spiraling out with him, the door squeaking, and begins his descent downstairs. Dean gestures towards him. “Plus Cas will be awake, and he can handle it, right?”

Cas is wearing only his white undershirt and trousers, his feet bare. Dean figures the rest of his outfit is strewn somewhere in the bathroom, flecks of dirt clinging to it, dripping, and he grimaces at the thought of having to maneuver between it all.

Carefully, Dean lowers his hand to Cas’ shoulder, now that he’s standing in the kitchen, prompting him to reply. Cas turns to meet Sam’s expectant eyebrow.

“I can handle it,” he states flatly, though it doesn’t look like he knows exactly _what_ he’s handling.

Dean claps his back. “There you go,” he says, returning to the frying pan. He cracks another egg and listens to it spit, crackling around the edges.

Cas meanders elsewhere, inspecting the study desk, sifting through old, mildewed drawers, coming up empty again. When the last egg from the pan is transferred to Sam’s plate, Dean cuts the burner. The plates are hot in his hands, and he grouses when they hit and coast across the table. Sam, thanks to the far-reaching WIFI, is too interested in something on his laptop to notice.

“Huh, that’s weird,” he mutters, at last, screwing his nose up.

“What’s that?” Dean asks. 

Castiel finishes patrolling the living room to sit next to Dean, his chair loud against the creaky flooring. Dean pushes a plate towards him. It doesn’t look very appetizing, though Cas does his best to mask this.

Sam points at his laptop. “I’ve researched Westerfall and everywhere around here to hell and back already, but I can’t seem to find that lake we found today. I mean, it was big enough to be on a map,” he says. His eyes are tired, blood-shot, searching over the screen, and Dean thinks he might drop dead.

The egg deflates when Dean carves his knife through it, a track of yellow oozing out. He glides it expertly into his mouth. “So what? Maybe it’s new or something,” he chews. Sam, looking dubious, shakes his head, pressing his finger against the table as if to make a point.

“But it wasn’t new, it had a sign - lake red devil. It’s obviously been discovered and was important enough to name.” Sam types furiously onto his keyboard and forges an expression similar to that of exclaiming, _eureka!_ “See? Nothing,” he says, slanting his laptop towards Dean. “According to Google Maps, it doesn’t exist.”

Cas looks a little interested in this newfound revelation, and he perks his head, humming. Dean isn’t as entirely convinced. He shovels a helping of beans onto his fork and sinks it deep into his salivating mouth.

“If Google Maps told you I had boobs the size of Texas, would you believe it?” he argues, raising an eyebrow, and Sam snorts incredulously. He lifts his hands into the air to counter him.

“That doesn’t even-”

“No, so quit your worrying. The internet gets stuff wrong all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.” Dean doesn’t want to think about the lake anymore. He doesn’t want to talk about it. But it stays there, in his peripheral, just out of reach, lapping, watching. It’s water cold and murky. He tires to repress it with another bite of gooey, fried egg, but it doesn’t work.

Castiel has given up on his meal entirely now. It sits there, more or less untouched, growing cold, and Dean can’t help but feel spurned. He pokes at it once more before looking at Sam.

“I have been told that Wikipedia can be a very unreliable source,” he relays gruffly. Sam only nods, closing his laptop to start on his abandoned plate.

He slides a segment of egg into his mouth, chewing it. “You’re probably right,” he says to no-one in particular. 

The atmosphere resumes to normal then, only disturbed by the sound of insects outside, the light bulbs flicking and humming. The cabin groaning. Dean laughs lightly to himself and directs his fork at Sam.

“Of course i’m right, i’m older than you,” he teases, flicking Sam’s arm. But Cas is quick to interpolate, more so than usual, his mouth swinging open like a fish gasping air. Dean surrenders, sighing. “Yes, Cas, I know you’re older than both of us... you old, cosmic grandpa. I get it.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to not be very amused.

As the night grows colder, Dean makes an effort of kindling the log left to rot in the hearth. It doesn’t stick. The log is damp, no doubt from seeping rainwater, and refuses to spark. Castiel tries to make himself useful by providing helpful tips, but this only aggravates Dean further.

The television does do a better job at operating, but only by a little bit. It stutters when the channel flips to a new one, grainy at the edges, embedded in black and white. Most channels don’t even seem to work. Dean re-arranges the antenna twice, three times, but with no luck. They opt on a show that follows a dog and his frantic owner, patrolling around town.

“The television doesn’t seem to be working,” Castiel says after a long time. Dean cranes his neck towards him, looking stupefied.

“It is working, Cas. It’s just in black and white.” Dean stands to probe the television when it begins to sputter, moving his fingers around it, squinting, poking around at nothing. His hands come away dusty when he removes them. Cas doesn’t appear any less displeased than he was before, and he frowns pointedly at him.

“I don’t like it,” he grumbles. Dean sighs and collapses back onto the couch, which is now, thankfully, a little more dust-free.

He picks at something in his teeth. “Nobody does, buddy.”

The image of the lake slinks further back into his mind, out of sight, and Dean can’t help but feel relieved by it. It tries to claw it’s way back, reaching, but he drowns it out, keeping his thoughts occupied - on the television, on sifting through leathery grimoires that Sam had brought with them. They don’t unearth much that night, and the welcoming pull of sleep quickly inches up on them. It’s Sam who’s climbing the stairs and bidding them goodnight first.

“Night, Sammy,” Dean waves. He turns the television off.

Castiel pretends to sleep as Dean finally mounts the stairs to his bedroom. They murmur in the wake of his footsteps, encroaching in around him, disrupting the chilling quiet that veils the night. It’s all Dean has the sense to think about as he clicks his bedroom door shut.

The morning will bring sunlight, and with it, a new day.

* * *

The rumble of the impala is a rewarding sound as the boys drift through the desolate outskirts of Westerfall. The road is barren, unused, sitting forgotten in a wet, marshy landscape. Though this begins to thin out as they approach the town, a large sign flagging them down. **WELCOME TO WESTERFALL! THE 37TH BEST TOWN IN AMERICA!**

Dean shifts in his seat. They’ve been driving for almost an hour now, and on account of the residing heat, his hands have become sticky on the steering wheel. He quickly peels them off to shake out. Castiel is quiet in the back, staring stoically out the window, contemplating. Sam is beside Dean, re-arranging the wrinkled newspaper clippings filed away in his notebook, though this does little to conjure up any new ideas, new leads. He continues anyway, humming as he sifts through them.

The radio is off. Sam had thought it to best to listen to the sound of the wind and the organic ambiance of the countryside. Dean doesn’t agree with this. He hates the silence that’s left behind, sidling into the impala. It’s enough to make him shudder. 

Muggy beams of sunlight filter through the windscreen, brightening up the hot, leathery interior. Dean paws at his forehead. The inched-open window isn’t doing much to provide any cool air, but he doesn’t want to blast the air conditioning and chew up his fuel, either. He needs to keep that in the event of a quick escape.

As the road begins to even out, the distant silhouette of a town materializes, rising into a skyline, white and dirty. The shrubbery begins to disappear, too, making way for a selection of roads and ramshackle stores. Everything looks old. Tired. Dean thinks that Westerfall very obviously doesn’t receive much praise on their touristy appeal.

He curves the impala onto a main road, which is pitted with potholes. “Who are we supposed to ask about the disappearances, anyway?” he says, eyeing the locals. They’re straggling around the front of stores, some smoking, some gossiping as they roll past. Dean looks back at them. “It’s not like we can grill any of the victims’ family members, they all live out of town. Jesus, why did it have to be a vacation rental?”

Sam doesn’t look entirely pleased as he considers the town. They’d had driven through it yesterday, too, but he wasn’t paying much attention then. Beaten footpaths and weedy parks scroll past them, hidden beneath a canopy of over-hanging trees, dark and weepy, similar to that of the ones near the cabin. Children play, but they don’t seem nearly as contented. They stare with small, beady eyes as Dean drifts past.

“Whoever’s willing to talk, I guess. I have a feeling people are going to be pretty tight-lipped about it.” Sam returns to pointedly flip through his notes. They fly and scatter when a particularly strong gust of wind moves through the open window, and he humphs.

Dean, somehow feeling exhausted already, drums on the steering wheel, sparing short glances at Sam who is now re-gathering his things. “Lucky us,” he mutters lowly.

A pothole, big this time, jostles the car, and the three of them jerk from their seats. Dean mutters something incoherently about his _baby,_ and how they’re going to pay for it. 

Suddenly, Castiel makes himself apparent by clearing his throat, and Sam and Dean almost jump out of their skins on the grounds of them forgetting that he was even there.

“I can appear more intimidating if necessary. It may give us a better chance at frightening them into answering our questions,” he suggests. Dean stamps out a smile, tucking it away, and glances briefly back at him. He looks like a child, folded into the corner of the car, his hair made disheveled by the wind that arises every so often, and Dean is almost tempted to reach out and pinch his cheek.

He gives him a thumbs up, instead. “I think you’re fine as is. Thank you, though,” he assures, returning to the road. Sam shakes his head in some disbelieving way.

After a minute or so more of navigating the road, they near a store so fittingly named The Juicy Basket. It sports a billboard above the building, printed with an image of a basket and a variety of fruits toppling out of it, looking about as run-down as all the other competing stores, and Sam points eagerly at it.

“Store, there,” he directs. Dean obliges, but not without giving him a confused look. 

“Yeah, I have eyes,” he says flatly. “Why are we going here? You got a ghostly hunch or something?” He pulls into the lot. Sam seams his mouth into a narrow line and peers over at him.

“More like hunger pangs,” he replies, pointing vaguely in the direction of his stomach. “We can’t survive on fried egg for the rest of the week, Dean. We need to buy groceries, and yes, that includes _vegetables_.”

Dean shudders.

They sidle out of the impala once it’s parked, shying away from the hot, clammy sunlight which clings to them. They view the entirety of the store - light green paint chipped and peeling, furnished by a set of electric sliding doors. Clumps of weeds sprout from each gaping rift in the pavement.

Apart from an obvious disregard for keeping the place tidy, the inside of The Juicy Basket is predictably the same as any other store Dean has been in. It’s cold. And it smells like a refrigerator. He watches as Sam picks up an apple to inspect, rolling it between his fingers.

Castiel clings to Dean’s side, looking hesitant. Dean supposes that he hasn’t frequented as many Wal-Marts or Targets as they have, and probably feels a little out of his element. There are no heavenly choirs here... only miscellaneous puddles of water.

They weave through the store collecting items that Sam considers appropriate for eating, filling their basket. At one point, Dean is persuaded - by himself - into approaching a woman in the second aisle, but thinks better of it when she sends him a frown, marching away. Everyone seems to pointedly avoid them as they finally reach the checkout area, unloading their things onto the conveyor belt.

The girl serving them sports the name badge Mary.

Sam glances towards Dean then, his eyes round and bright. Dean can’t seem to figure out what he’s hinting at before Sam is smiling cordially at the girl.

“Hi,” he starts, gathering her attention. She flaunts black, streaky eyeliner around her eyes, appearing grim and uninterested. Sam clears his throat. “Uh, this might sound weird... probably really weird, actually, but do you know anything about those disappearances just out of town? In that cabin? You know, those two girls, only three weeks ago, I think?” he says casually. He’s leaning completely on the belt now, smiling, and Mary reaches aggressively for an item located beneath his perched elbow. It sends him shooting forwards.

“No.” She scans a box of cereal. Castiel begins to intervene, but Dean stops him.

Sam’s hair is left drooping over his forehead as he stands upright, and he quickly makes an effort of swatting it back down again. Mary remains stony-faced as she sifts through their items, separating them into brown paper bags.

Sam tries again. This time, he’s looking even more friendly, though this doesn’t seem to make an impact on her.

“Really? I think it was in the newspapers and everything,” he urges.

Castiel, from what Dean can gather, is trying to look angry. His fists are squeezed tight, shaking visibly beneath his violent and _almighty_ fury, eyes predictably squinted. But he doesn’t look very intimidating, at least not without his angel blade or monstrous wings. Dean can only pat his shoulder reassuringly.

Mary pauses to glower at Sam, her hand folded around a carton of almond milk.

“I haven’t heard about it, okay?” she insists through gritted teeth, and Sam nods. Slowly, he lowers his hand to the belt, halting it.

“Okay, I get it. I was just curious,” he says. “It’s pretty crazy stuff, you know?”

This seems to snap something inside of her, and weirdly, she growls, deep and barbaric, baring her teeth at Sam, throwing an item to the ground. Luckily for Dean, it’s only a case of strawberries. They scatter accordingly on impact, and Sam gasps. Castiel, somehow, is squinting even harder than he was before, his hand perched on something tucked into his tan coat.

“Would you just drop it already?” she demands angrily. A girl, who’s standing behind them, tsks, looking embarrassed. “I can have you kicked out.”

It’s Dean’s turn to interrupt now. He kicks at a get-away strawberry and shimmies in front of Sam, countering Mary. Her eyes are wild and rolling around in her head.

“Okay, let’s not get our panties in a twist, alright? We were just asking,” he says coldly, and Sam sighs. He makes quick effort of paying for the groceries and hefting them into his arms, Castiel hovering warily nearby. But Mary isn’t finished threatening them. She points squarely at Dean, smiling darkly.

Her voice is low when she speaks. Only for him to hear. “Good luck with that lake.”

Dean stares back at her, surprised, a chill working it's way up his neck. The image of it resurfaces. “What lake?”

It’s Sam who chooses to rise above, towing Dean out the store and into the daylight, the faint chime of a bell sounding somewhere behind them. The sun is bright, blinding even, and Dean has to raise his hand to counter it. Castiel emerges in a flurry nearby, his coat swishing around him.

Sam looks like he wants to say a thousand things, but Dean isn’t really in the mood for it. His thoughts are tied up elsewhere, back to the lake, the murky water and the marsh residing beneath it. It’s as vivid as it was when he first saw it, and Dean hates that he can’t escape it. Can’t wipe it away like a dirty smudge.

What does that girl know that he doesn’t?

The sound of the impala opening separates Dean from his momentary stupor, and he blinks, shaking his head out. Sam is unloading the groceries into the backseat, with the gracious help of Castiel, and is muttering something. He looks flustered, though Dean can’t blame him. The door swings shut and leaves only a dampened silence in it’s wake.

“Okay, so maybe everyone around here is a little more touchy than I thought,” Sam says, at last, looking at his watch. It’s mid-day now, and the sun hangs in the sky, brightening the dirty pavement.

As they begin to climb back into the impala, feeling frustrated, a girl gains in on them, looking ruddy and out of breath, her hair frayed-out around her. She carries a paper bag in one hand, the other moving unceremoniously to flag them down. Dean quickly notices her as the one lined up behind them in The Juicy Basket.

“Wait!” she shouts. 

Her flip-flops rake against the pavement as she moves, hustling up to them, leaning on the impala. Dean makes a point of staring at her hand when she prints it against the resin. Slowly, she retracts it. Sam half-unfolds himself from the car to tune into whatever she’s about to say, Castiel resuming his thunderous, almighty look, his hand hovering over his waistband.

She looks warily between them. “Hey,” she clears her throat, pointing right at the store. “I saw what happened back there. You guys are looking into the disappearances, right? You reporters or something?”

Despite her short involvement, Dean isn’t very interested in talking to the girl. She looks no older than fifteen, her braces blinking over her teeth. He just suspects that she’s nosy and wants a little more information to dish out to her friends.

He shrugs, looking uninterested. “Yeah, sure, let’s go with that.”

The girls nods, impervious to Dean’s lack of curiosity, and begins to root around for something in her grocery bag. Sam quietens, his eyes sweeping the empty lot for onlookers. They don’t know what they’re about to lay eyes on, and it has them predictably nervous. Dean looks at Sam, then Cas. Finally, the girl emerges with a candy bar, and she grins greedily back at it.

Dean slumps, and Sam moves further back into the impala.

“You won’t find anybody around here who’ll talk about that stuff, you know,” she says while unwrapping it. Dean’s stomach, despite it’s best efforts, rumbles loudly at the treat, and he immediately turns away. Sam, however, is staring in a way that he knows aggravates him, shaking his head. The girl squashes the candy bar down her throat.

After a short moment, Sam sidles out of the car to approach them.

“Then why are _you_ talking to us?” he asks suspiciously, his professionalism completely erased.

The girl, looking cautious, moves closer to them, abandoning her candy bar wrapper to the pavement. “Because I want to know what happened to those people, too,” she whispers quietly. This surprises Sam, but does little to blow Dean away. He’s too busy keeping tabs on her. He’s suspicious of everyone... especially when they come galloping out of the grocery store and poking around about missing people.

Castiel has calmed, if only a little, and is presenting his best paying attention look. It gauges high on the meter of needing to shit.

“Hold on, shortcake,” Dean starts, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. On account of the old mattress in his bedroom, he hadn’t slept very comfortably last night. It shows in slow blinks, a gravelly voice. “Don’t think that just because you’re a curious little girl who wants to solve the town’s latest mystery that we’re all gonna team up and become the scooby gang.”

Sam is a bit more forgiving. He pats at his pocket and fishes out a notepad, moving his pen against it. With a friendly smile, the girl quickly gravitates towards him.

“Do you know anything that can help us?” he asks, his eyebrow raised, and the girl palms at her neck, rubbing it. She looks nervous all of a sudden. Dean wants to know why - what secrets she's hiding.

“My grandma... she’s told me things, weird things, says this town is hiding a whole lot that most don’t know about.” She toes at the pavement. 

The sun is really heating them up now. Castiel, despite his heavy coat, looks noticeably contented, and he steps forwards, abandoning his hand that was left to perch on - from what Dean can suspect - a weapon. The girl has proven she’s no threat to them.

Cas’ twists his face into a frown. “Like what?” he says, throaty as always.

The girl appears a little uneasy now that she’s being questioned by three adult men. Sam scratches something into his notepad, flipping through it, looking as though he’s trying to bind it all together. “I don’t know,” she swallows. Her eyes dart between them. “It has a dark past, but she won’t tell me what it is. Like I said, nobody talks around here. I think it has something to do with the curse of lake red devil.”

The god damned _lake._ Dean can’t seem to escape it. It sticks to his skin and dampens there like a chilled sweat, and he suddenly wants to hop into the impala and drive away. 

Sam pauses his writing to look up. The pen hangs in his hand. “A curse? Like put there by a witch?” he asks pointedly. The girl shakes her head, crouching to set her grocery bag down onto the pavement. 

“No, not like that. It’s like...” the girl weakens, finding her words, “you know how things come and go? Stores are built and then bulldozed down again. Signs are made and then taken away. Westerfall has been through a lot of change, but the one thing that has always remained the same is the curse. The fear.” She pushes a hand through her unkempt hair. “My grandma’s always told me to stay away from that lake. She says it’s a thing that breathes just the same as you and me.”

Castiel’s frown deepens, and he moves his head in a way that suggests he's incapable of believing anything she’s saying. Sam looks a little unconvinced, too.

“That can’t be true, it’s only a body of stagnant water,” Castiel interrupts, but it’s not like they _can’t_ believe it. It's the ambiguity of it.

Sam airs out his shirt, which is now sticky from the heat. “You think it has something to do with those people vanishing? The curse?” He spares a look at the impala, at the groceries on the backseat. They can’t hang around all day, otherwise their food will go bad and fry.

Sam clicks his pen.

The girl moves to fetch her grocery bag again, which, on account of the heat, is now leaking something. It puddles on the pavement, reaching out in long, wet fingers. She kicks helplessly at it as it moves for the empty parking lot.

“I...” she begins, rotating on her flip-flops, walking backwards. “I don’t know, but if I were you guys, i’d stay away from that lake."

She quickly rounds the store’s corner and disappears behind it, leaving Dean, Sam and Castiel behind.

Sam doesn’t look very impressed, or convinced, for that matter, and he buries his notepad back into his pocket. Dean sends him a look that suggests that they shouldn’t be heeding warnings from a thirteen year old. They can be sort of unreliable, mostly on account of them being children.

* * *

That night, the cold encroaches in on the cabin, making the doors creak, the flooring groan underfoot. Dean does his best to remain light-footed, avoiding the set of old stairs, but fails to stop himself from stalking the length of the living room. The lake eats away at him - what Mary had mentioned to him at The Juicy Basket. Unfortunately, Sam or Castiel hadn’t had the pleasantry of hearing it, which leaves him feeling even more disturbed by it. It was only for him. _To_ him.

Dinner is a bombardment of the vegetables that Sam had so painstakingly purchased earlier that day. They’re peeled, washed and sautéd. Cas does nothing to repress his disgust, and Dean, much to Sam’s exasperation, is right there with him, making a point of pushing around what's on his plate. But it isn't long before Dean is betrayed by his own stomach, and he decides to make peace with what he has, eating it reluctantly.

They talk a little more about the case, what they’ve discovered so far and what ideas they can flesh out. Sam dredges up the lake, but no more so than an afterthought. He flips through his notepad in the hopes of finding something remotely interesting. Words like: **LAKE, EVIL, CURSED?? BURIAL GROUND?** are among the print that Sam had so aggressively written down, but they do little to bring anything to light.

Castiel looks defeated, and it shows in the way he stares blankly into the cabin, quiet. Creatures of the night cry out when there's an absence of talk in the room, accompanied by the constant hum of insects, kept away by the mesh door and windows, and when Dean finds that he can’t concentrate anymore, he slogs off to his bedroom.

He feels no better when he reaches it. No safer. Like he’s just as much at the mercy of whatever’s prowling outside as he is in his room. 

He dreams of water that night. It laps around him, moving over the rim, but it isn’t dirty - it’s clean and sudsy. He wades through it before hitting a smooth wall of porcelain, and realizes then that he’s in a bathtub. It’s a memory. One of him being a child, and it comforts him.

Suddenly, a rubber duck bobs into view, the brightness of it extraordinary as he reaches out for it. It squeaks, like any toy should, and he’s ridiculously tempted to push it under. To watch it sink and burst to the water's surface again. Over and over, like a curious little game. He claps at the resurgence of it.

Under the duck goes, and up it pops again.


	2. Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait between chapters!

Eventually, Dean begins to feel his fingers. His shoulders pressed into the bed. They’re slick with the cold, which, on account of the sunlight etching through his bedroom window, has begun to ebb away. Out of the cabin and into the woods, like a retreating smog. It leaves a dark pocket in it’s wake, and Dean hates that he has to move through it so early in the morning.

The wet rot that climbs the fabric of his curtains hangs over him, reaching out in long fingers. They do little to obstruct the light erupting through his window - right into his eyes - and he groans, pawing at his forehead. He has a headache, no doubt from the _intruding natural elements_ , as Sam would so pompously put it. But Dean isn’t used to it, and he’s not very certain he ever will be. Living normally isn’t something he’s educated in, so playing it out with Sam and Castiel is kind of hard. He so desperately finds his hands moving to weapons that aren’t there, to the slots of magic fingers that don’t exist. It isn’t his fault that so many years of hunting have found him without the means to work in a homely environment.

A pop sounds down below, and Dean heaves out of bed, setting towards the bathroom. He watches the water spiral down the drain, finding it easier to look at than his own tired expression. Two nights of disappointing sleep. It isn’t doing him any favors... not physically, at least. He braces against the sink, choosing to splash water on his face in the hopes it will brighten him up a bit. 

The stairs are no quieter when he descends them, and Sam perks his head at the creak of it, casting him a weary smile. He also looks like he hasn’t slept very comfortably.

“Does your bed feel like a pile of rocks crammed together, too?” Dean says.

Sam rolls his shoulders in a way that answers Dean’s question. “Yeah, something like that,” he agrees.

The windows are open in the cabin, the heat made apparent from the emerging sunlight, inching into the room. It makes the furniture hot, the television broadcast even more twisted. But Dean at least appreciates the smell of the open woods, shaping a canopy of green around them, even despite his apprehensiveness of the area. 

Sam rummages around in the upper cabinet and fetches a mug from it. “Coffee?” he asks absent-mindedly, scratching at his head, and Dean accepts it, coming to sit at the study desk. He pulls the framed photograph up to inspect, but also finds that it lacks any implication, or interest, and pops it back down again.

“But none of that almond milk shit.” He gently shakes the desk, listening to it groan. Sam is somewhere behind him, getting the stove to light. It hums when he operates it, and he tsks, sitting a kettle over it’s rusty burner.

“Dean, it’s good for you. That’s why i bought it,” he argues, and Dean can feel him frowning like something hot on his neck. He swats at the spot instinctively.

“Dude, I think I’d rather die an early death,” he laughs back.

Sam doesn’t say anything, continuing to wait on the burner to heat. Castiel suddenly appears then, in a flurry of wind and leaves, and he perks up, looking gravely into the cabin. His eyes are squinted when he comes to rest a hand on the desk chair, skating his fingers through the dust that has accumulated there.

“Be careful what you wish for out here. That seems to have a habit of coming true,” he warns gruffly, removing the dirt from his fingers.

Dean frowns at him, tilting his neck to better rub at the bruised area. “Wow. A tad morbid, Cas.” The muscle there is tight, most likely on account of his poorly assembled bed. It usually creaks when he moves just a bit, or pokes at him - sharp and uneven - from all directions, and Dean wonders if Sam is handling the same bodily discomfort. “... and we don’t know for sure if anyone has _actually_ died-”

“But we’re going to find out. We won't rest until then,” Sam interrupts. Dean removes his hand from his weakened muscle, unwinding his shoulders, looking to Castiel. He’s still standing incredibly close to him, but his grip has tightened even further on the study desk chair. Dean can feel it keeling backwards under his super angelic strength. He suspects it’s his way of concurring with Sam, or that he’s trying desperately to tip Dean over.

They stare at each other until the kettle begins to sing. It’s Dean’s prompt to jump up from the desk and see to his morning wake-up juice. The healthier kind, anyway. Sam probably wouldn’t be too happy to see him flaunting a bottle of beer this early in the morning. Not that it’s _his_ body.

Dean spoons a helping of coffee into his mug, which has definitely seen better days, and resumes the conversation. “Yeah, we’re going to find out,” he says, pouring steaming water into it. Sam nods, reclining back onto the small counter to give Dean the necessary space to operate in the kitchen. It’s just so musty in there, and Dean quickly finishes up to scoot out of the way, crossing the living room. He makes headway for the slightly open mesh-door, the source of the fresh air. “And when we do, i’ll buy us all ice cream.” The door clangs behind him when he exits, and he steps out onto the decked out porch, appreciating the view. The cabin, and everything around it, feels a lot safer during the day. A lot more like living an apple pie life.

Dean can’t help but draw back at that. He, a man who ganks monsters for a living, is spooked by an old vacation rental in the woods. At night, no less. God, maybe he _is_ losing his machismo.

He sips delicately at his beverage, aware that the coffee inside is still too hot to sample. That and the growing June heat. It beams down on them, leaving the cabin damp and sticky-feeling. Thankfully, the lop-sided tin roof that hangs over the porch keeps Dean out of direct sunlight, and he basks in the soft wind that sweeps over him every so often. It brings with it the scent of dirt and grass. The sound of insects and marsh critters, too, carving through the trees. Dean watches them sway, their leaves almost touching the cabin’s top.

He realizes then that he hasn’t thought about the stupid lake all morning, and the awareness of this makes him smile smugly into his cup.

It’s nearing mid-day when the three of them finally get to work, mapping things out, the windows left to sit open. They’d slammed shut earlier, no doubt from being worn out, and Dean had to jut something underneath the framework to keep it there, allowing the breeze in.

Dean thinks the cabin isn’t the best place to crack a case in, let alone think clearly.

Sam appears with glasses of water every so often, grouching when Cas insists that he doesn’t need to drink and when Dean asks for something a little stronger. They revisit the lake, but they don’t concentrate on it. Sam’s appears more interested in the apparent curse, which might be summoning some eldritch thing from deep inside the woods. He doesn’t take the girl’s warning to keep their distance from a body of stagnant water very seriously.

By early afternoon, Castiel is folded across from Dean, leaning against the couch, his head inside a heavy grimoire. He peels through it painstakingly slow, and Dean can’t help but watch him every so often. His squinted eyes. His movement when he thinks he’s discovered something important. It’s kind of endearing. Or maybe he’s just _that_ bored. He looks down at his own book of mythology, finding himself on page twenty-five of four-hundred and something, and sighs. He’s always hated this part of the job.

Sam inches back on his creaky chair, his mobile phone connected to his ear. “Yeah Bobby, anything to do with curses involving water... or monsters, I guess,” he says, untucking the pen from behind his ear and jotting something down. His laptop, which sits open on the dining table, displays more tabs on jpeg. creatures than Dean can count.

He looks over at Castiel again, willing him to do something remotely interesting. Nothing happens, and he heaves his grimoire onto the ground, a plume of dust climbing up with it.

“This one’s empty,” he decides.

Cas frowns, his eyes narrowing suspiciously before they can even find Dean. Gently, he closes his book, being sure as to keep his spot bookmarked. “Did you read through it?” he asks, his tone a tad accusatory. Dean often forgets how serious Cas can be despite his social incompetence, and he pauses, choosing to shrug.

“Duh,” he mutters back absent-mindedly. His mind is caught by the open window, and the tree outside that harbors a nest of small birds. They squawk and flap around frantically, but never too far from the tree. It gives Dean something to focus on other than the plunging heat, moving and sponging in around them.

Cas is still examining him. “ _All_ of it?” he repeats, and Dean throws his hands into the air.

“What’s with the twenty questions? I’m doing my part, okay? These stupid books just don’t have anything in them.” He kicks deliberately at his leathery grimoire and sends it spinning off, tuning into Sam on the phone, instead. He finds it more interesting than flicking through withered pages, anyway.

Sam has his neck crammed against his shoulder, keeping his mobile in one spot, his notebook now printed with scrambled writing. Dean can hear Bobby through the tinny phone line. “Fossegrim? Okay, we could look into that...” Sam nods, tapping his pen on his forehead, frowning suddenly. “...Kraken? Bobby I don’t think- okay, okay yep i’m writing it down. I’m doing it now.” He casts a look towards Dean, shaking his head in some incredulous way.

Dean smiles, pawing at his forehead, finding it advantageous that they don't have to climb into suits and play FBI agents today. He’s already hot enough as it is in his shirt, and just looking at Cas in his layered tax accountant get-up makes him even hotter - even if it doesn’t bother him.

After a short moment, Dean points at where Castiel has resumed reading. “You find anything?”

Cas clears his throat, moving to unwind his legs and set his reading material down amongst the other journals and books and newspaper clippings. He looks a little discouraged.

“No, nothing of import. The lack of clues is making this case a little difficult. I hope Bobby can give us a foothold,” he replies, gravelly as always, looking stoically into the cabin. 

Dean doesn’t share in his disappointment. He’s a little frustrated, yes - the sooner they resolve this, the sooner they can get out of dodge, because despite the cabin’s quiet appeal, he can’t seem to shuck off that cold, chilling feeling that sticks to him. But he knows they’ll straighten it out. Something will pop up, and this will all be over. Just like every other case they’ve ever worked.

Dean scratches at his arm. “We always figure this stuff out, man. Try not to sweat it too much,” he reassures, but his mind is caught by the birds outside again. They squeak and caw, but it doesn’t sound right. It’s as if they’ve been taught by humans how to call, and it comes out totally screwy. Without tune or song. He focuses on the uncanniness of it.

Castiel’s confusion brings him back. 

He pats around at his tan coat. “I wasn’t sweating - I can’t sweat.”

Dean only laughs.

Sam is scribbling more words down, nodding into the receiver. “Yep, juniper, orange blossoms... a... a six sided pendulum? Okay, I think we can get most of that in town. Right, thanks Bobby.” Sam presses on the hang-up option, moving to rest his mobile on the kitchen table. Carefully, he tears out a page from his notepad and turns to present it to Dean and Castiel, who are now watching him eagerly. 

“What did he say?” Dean prompts.

Sam points his pen at the page, though this does nothing to help Dean. All he can see is lines and blotches of black ink. He squints at it, imagining that he and Cas probably look very much alike right now.

“He gave me a spell. A summoning spell - for creatures who draw their power from water,” Sam explains, returning to the list of ingredients he’d managed to jot down. He places it down onto the table, right next to his open laptop, and looks pointedly between them. “Whatever’s out there, this might be our best chance at getting into contact with it.”

Dean somewhat snorts, hauling to his feet then. He double-checks the gun tucked away in the back of his jeans, feeling the pressing weight of it there. Warm and firm. “Yeah, and then we kill it.”

* * *

Westerfell is about as uninviting as it was the day before, but at least Dean knows when to avoid the potholes in the road. 

They glide by in the impala, pulling into an abandoned lot at the back of a convenience store, sidling out of it. Dean makes sure to double check the locks on account of his baby sticking out like a sore thumb. He almost feels guilty when he slowly slinks away from it.

Sam had looked up a store they could visit for other-wordly supplies earlier, back at the cabin. He navigates the way on the beaten footpath, Dean and Cas following closely behind, their eyes instinctively peeled for unusual activity. The town, despite it looking incredibly washed-out, is neat, sunlight prickling through the few trees that line the main street. Dean can see people in the distance, but they scatter and disappear out of sight when they draw near to them.

They walk for a bit, Sam pointing them in different directions, Castiel’s coat catching in the afternoon wind every so often. 

“I’m just saying, dude, it’s been proven that Jack could've fit onto that door with her. I mean, she didn’t even try to get him on there, at least not very hard-”

“Dean, just... stop for a second,” Sam interrupts, halting them. They pitch their heads up to look at a looming shopfront, which is plastered in shimmery stickers and a sign that reads **I CAN READ YOUR HANDS**. Sam points shamefully at it. “I think this is the place.”

Dean and Castiel exchange troubled looks. 

A photograph of an older woman hangs in the store window, sporting a leopard print sarong and wild, frayed-out hair. Dean thinks she looks familiar, but he can’t be entirely certain. He slogs up to the front of it, grinning. “Oh yeah? What gives it away you think?” he says, and Sam tuts indignantly, shaking his head. “Girlfriend material right here, Sammy.” He shapes a heart with his fingers over the woman’s photograph.

Castiel is amused by this, and he smiles happily in Sam’s direction.

“Come on,” Sam urges, pressing on the shop door and activating a shrill, drawn-out chime. It sings as they enter, the smell of smoked wood and various leaves climbing up around them. Sam is quick to unravel the crumpled page from his pocket, flattening it out for them to read, peering around. “Look for anything on this list,” he instructs quietly. Dean and Castiel nod, splitting up to raid the shop floor.

Dean mostly finds that colored rocks, gems and jewelry take up a large portion of the store, and he sifts through them casually, picking out the ones he likes. The smell doesn’t ease up. It sticks in the air, thick and clammy, clinging to him like a second shirt.

Eventually he finds a six-sided pendulum - fashioned entirely from quartz - and holds it up to admire, swinging it around. But he feels something on the back of his head, something like eyes, and he turns to scope out the chill working up his neck. It’s a woman, the same woman from the photograph. She eyes him from behind the check-out counter. Dean can only suspect that she’s the owner of the store, and he moves to seek out Sam.

He’s standing somewhere in the middle of the room, his head obstructed by a number of hanging dream catchers of all shapes and proportions. Dean nudges at his arm when he approaches him. “Hey, what’s with her giving us the stink eye?” he asks, feeling both offended and on-guard. Sam twists his head to look at her, but not for very long.

“Ignore it,” he mutters. 

Dean looks at the small various paper bags he’s holding, which he imagines is filled with herbs and ingredients necessary for the summoning ritual, and quickly presents his own finding. Sam appears surprised and pleased by this. Amazingly, Castiel has also fetched another useful component for the spell, and the three of them draw up coolly to the check-out counter. Sam sends the woman a nod before emptying his hands onto the bench.

She begins to scan their items, her many rings and bracelets clinking together. Dean leans onto the counter. “Hey.” 

She doesn't gratify him with a greeting.

“Okay then,” he says stiffly, turning away from her, and Sam clears his throat in the wake of their unpleasant silence. Castiel, as usual, doesn’t appear very phased. He stands quietly in the back, arms clamped down to his sides, staring straight ahead. Dean wants to join him - to live in a bubble where social etiquette doesn’t exist. It would make acting out their cases a lot easier.

But something clicks then, and he shoots around to stare at the woman. At her frizzy hair. Her blue, slanted eyes. “Wait a second...” he presses, massaging a memory to the forefront of his mind. Sam moves uncomfortably next to him, as if willing him to stop whatever he’s about to say.

“Dean,” he warns.

“Do you have a granddaughter? About yay high?” Dean rests his hand just below his shoulder, looking directly at the old woman. She suddenly pauses her scanning. “Hair like yours... she was like, what, thirteen? Fourteen?”

There’s a beat.

They’re all staring at each other now, waiting for someone to say something. Anything. Eventually, the woman clears her throat, peering up at them from her short height.

Her creased skin stretches when she says, “you know my Serena?”

Dean wishes he didn’t. Wishes he didn’t know _any_ children, let alone this spiritual grandma’s one. But he does, he’s certain of it, and it brings them a little closer to answering the metaphorical question mark that hangs over the town. A little closer to leaving Westerfell and scratching them off the map entirely. Sam straightens, looking interested in this newfound information, and casts his eyes warily to the woman.

A crystal ball, which is perched neatly on the bench, glints out under the ceiling light, and Dean reaches out to touch it. “Uh, it’s about fifty fifty. She said you told her some crazy stuff about...” he pauses, shaking his hand out, gulping, “... lake red devil.”

The name itself is enough to make him shudder, like it carries some secret burden with it, and he takes a moment to push the creeping thoughts away. Thankfully he hasn’t visited the lake in almost two days, and it’s mysterious hold on him has begun to wane.

The woman seals their paper bags with tape. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I cannot help you,” she mumbles quietly, sadly. 

Dean is surprised by the despairing undertone in her voice, and he frowns. Castiel also looks suspicious of what she isn’t saying.

“Who said we needed help?” Sam counters, shedding away his meek persona, and Dean moves to rest a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back slightly. The old woman only shakes her head at them, presenting their items and poking at the buttons on her register.

“Forty-two fifty,” she says. The three of them relax, figuring they’re not going to wheedle any important information out her, and pay for the ingredients. Dean just thinks she doesn’t know what she’s talking about - that she filled her granddaughter’s head with wacky stories that weren’t true. And if there was any truth to them, it certainly didn’t apply to a stupid dirty lake in the woods. 

Sam squeezes his mouth into an unimpressed line. 

They visit a nearby supermarket afterwards, seeking out ingredients for the ritual which are considered a little more commonplace. Ginger. Filtered water. They decisively choose not to disturb the cashier in fear of them being shouted at again, and they keep their heads low.

Dean also convinces them to enter an electronics store on the journey back to the car for a new TV antenna. He’s sure he can fix the one in the cabin - all it needs is some new moving parts. Sam allows this on the grounds that Castiel won’t complain as much when they tune in to watch it. However, the young man working at the store doesn’t even seem to know what an antenna is, and Dean has to tell him gruffly to look somewhere in the back... four times.

They set off from Westerfell at around 4PM with their shiny new purchases; Sam in the passenger seat and Castiel folded in the back. Dean likes that Cas doesn’t snap his fingers to meet them there, even though he has the heavenly mojo to. It shows how much he cares about them and the case at hand. He wants to be there. Dean wishes he could say the same.

Beers are divvied up back at the cabin, then dinner. It’s something Sam had thrown together, because they just aren’t used to this - cooking with fresh groceries instead of eating whatever's going. Usually something cheap and greasy. It gives Dean withdrawal symptoms, but it seems to make Sam happy, and the idea of separating from the life and settling down suddenly doesn’t seem so exhausting. Or far-fetched.

The cold arrives on time, as usual, inching into the cabin, sticking to their clothes. It gives rise to the sound of weeping animals and quiet whispers, which the boys can only suspect is the wind playing tricks on them. Moving through the woodwork and the clamped shut windows. It sounds almost like a song, but not one they’ve ever heard. 

Sad and lonely. Like it’s calling out to someone.

It’s completely dark out when Dean decides to have his hand at rebuilding the old, boxy television from the bottom up, complaining and kicking at it when it doesn’t work right away. Luckily Cas, who actually reads the instructions, is there to help him, and they spend most of the night slaving away over it. It’s a good enough distraction from the shiver of fear that moves through Dean every so often. He just can’t seem to shuck it off.

“Finally,” he sighs, at last, righting the television up with the help of Castiel’s supernatural strength. Sam has long since gone to bed, and Dean tries to tell himself that he hasn’t turned in only because he wants to see the TV in working order. He knows it’s a lie.

Castiel smiles when the picture crops up containing a host of unexplored television channels to skim through. He sits down on the couch, seemingly mesmerized by it, and Dean decides to mount the stairs to his room.

He dreams of water again that night, floating around in a porcelain bathtub. The same rubber duck is there, bright and yellow, and Dean pushes it under. Up and down. Up and down. He can’t think of anything else to do.

* * *

The sunlight prickling through the curtains wakes Dean with a jolt, and he groans, shying away from it, whipping the blanket up around him. He’s not very good at tolerating this cold to hot business, though he can’t really blame himself for it. He’s never lived out in the thick of the woods before.

He blinks away the smog in his eyes and rolls out of bed. But he pauses, only momentarily, to look at the room’s boxed-in edges, at the photograph on the wall, the ceiling light that blinks randomly above him, despite it being turned off completely. Because each time he looks at it, it feels a little smaller. A little more like it’s trying to eat him, and Dean hates that the thought doesn’t sound so ridiculous anymore. 

Sam is downstairs again, sporting an old shirt and pajama pants, puttering around like a maid trying to keep busy, and he smiles when he sees Dean, extending out a mug of hot coffee for him to take. Dean thinks he’s having deja vu, but he accepts it all the same.

“Morning sunshine,” he rasps, sampling his drink. The emptiness of the cabin surprises him then, and he swings his head around to look for a familiar Angel of The Lord, coming up blank. He squints back at Sam, who has apparently made the world’s tiniest kitchen his favorite spot. “Where’s Cas?”

Sam picks at the fruit left to sit out on a ceramic plate - probably in the hopes that Dean would test some of it - and pops a piece into his mouth. It crunches when he bites down on it.

“He had to go sort something out, something to do with angel radio, I think. I didn’t ask too many questions. I don’t think i’m awake enough for that yet,” Sam answers between chewing.

Dean nods. Castiel isn’t enslaved to them, he knows this, but they do need all the help they can get, especially with the ritual being today. He can only hope that Cas will make a surprise appearance when it’s go time, because the thought of countering whatever’s out there without any angel-juice makes him a little nervous. They’ve ganked monsters before, sure, but this one feels different. Bigger. Badder - Dean isn’t sure they can take it on their own.

He sidles over to the couch to collapse onto it. “So what’s the plan? How do we make this spell do it’s... spell thingy?” A kitchen knife, left to sit out on the coffee table overnight, glints up at Dean, and he picks it up menacingly. “Because i’m dying to meet this son of a bitch,” he grunts, angling the blade towards him. He remembers it being there from last night’s fight against the TV antenna box.

Sam sighs, a pained expression casting over him. He moves out from the kitchen. “Slow down, Dean,” he says urgently, shaking his head. “Even if this does work, we can’t go charging in guns blazing. We need to know what this thing wants first, why it’s doing what it’s doing. Figure out a plan.”

Sam and his stupid sensibility. 

“I can tell you what it wants, Sam. Me to stab it right between the eyes.” Dean carves the kitchen knife through the air. Sam only grumbles in reply, bringing his hand down to rest on the adjacent couch. He squeezes it, as if releasing his pent up frustration.

“You’re not thinking this through,” he complains. Dean rolls his eyes at him, placing the knife down along with his mug, looking out the open window.

“Yeah, well, it’s a habit of mine,” he mutters, catching sight of a small, red bird. It flaps down onto a tree branch, sitting there, watching, and it jerks suddenly, twisting into the sky again. Stilted and wrong. It’s uncanny song carries on the breeze, and Dean shudders at the re-surfacing of it, circling around him like a wreath.

Sam paces the length of the living room, stretching his hands out, and Dean peels away from the window to entertain him.

“So we’ll do the summoning spell around mid-day, when it’s at it’s weakest. If it’s a water spirit or something, the sun’s heat will keep it tired... at least that’s what Bobby told me. These things tend to strike at night,” Sam explains coolly, moving to the kitchen table to collect his notepad. He reads over it, tracing his finger over something Dean can’t spot.

Dean pats at his neck, feeling a peppering of sweat there already. He thinks he should probably wash-up, but then again, these summonings had a habit of getting bloody.

He eyes a bead of sweat on his fingertip. “So should the ritual be away from water, too?” he asks casually, and Sam glances up from his notes, nodding.

“Yeah. Can’t let it near it’s power source, I guess,” he says in agreement.

Dean humphs, reaching out for his mug and taking an impressive gulp of it. He then stands unsteadily to his feet and claps his hands together.

“Works for me,” he grins, crossing the cabin to gear-up in his room.

It's there he works into a black shirt and light jacket, more for his protection against the swarming insects outside than anything else, and slides into his boots, lacing them up. Sam prepares in his own bedroom, and the two of them clamber back down the stairs when it comes mid-day.

Sam digs out a duffel bag he’d thought to bring with them and seals the spell ingredients inside, being careful as not to break anything in his hurry. Dean can see the nervous twitch in his fingers, the dry movement of his throat, and he pauses to ease him out of it. He only smiles, zipping up the bag. Dean wants to bring more comfort to him, but he doesn’t know how.

After a moment, Sam looks down at his watch. He swallows. “We have to make sure we’re careful about this, Dean, so no one gets hurt.”

Dean plucks the cabin’s door key from the kitchen table and slips it into his back pocket, taking the duffel bag from Sam. Carefully, he maneuvers the shoulder strap over his body, his chest, allowing it to rest there. “I won’t let anything bad happen, Sammy,” he assures quietly. He then makes headway for the front door, the bag bouncing against his waist. There are few heavy items inside, but it doesn’t weigh him down much.

Stepping out onto the porch, the brother’s lock the cabin door behind them and confront the burning heat of day, the dampness in the air. Dean swats at a mosquito as he makes his way towards the parked impala, opening up the boot to raid the various monster-slaying weapons inside. Sam is right behind him, quiet, his hand reaching out for a knife, a gun with engraved bullets. They need to be prepared.

Dean still holds out hope that Castiel will suddenly magic in front of them, but he doesn’t depend on it much. They’re on their own now, and they need to make this work, because the sooner they can get out of here, the better.

At last they plunge into the greenery, working through it, fighting away leaves and twigs and undergrowth that curl and break around them. Dean can feel the ground, the dirt and the mud, become almost sloppy beneath him, and he pushes harder through the weight of it all, trailing behind Sam. He tries to tune out the sounds that follow them, like a quiet whisper, watching them like a pair of eyes, but it doesn’t work.

Sunlight reaches through the canopy above them, brightening the area up. Dean does his best to avoid the pools of dirty water, but finds that he can’t overstep them. Splash. In his boot goes. Sam suddenly waves him in the opposite direction, no doubt to seek out drier land for the ritual to take place in, and Dean slogs up tiredly behind him.

But an up-heaved tree root catches him off guard and he quickly goes tumbling over it, encrusting his knees and hands in wet mud. He groans out, looking over the cut on his hand. A trickle of blood oozes from it. “Jesus Christ,” he says, panting, his duffel bag hanging around him. He immediately glances up, shaking his head, expecting to find Sam poking fun at his lack of eye-foot coordination, but finds no one there. In fact, Sam isn’t anywhere.

Slowly, Dean peels himself off the ground, wiping the mud away, and circles around to look for him. Trust Dean to lose Sam in the middle of the god damned woods. Sometimes he thinks he needs a leash, or a bell.

But before Dean can start shouting for him, Sam is, quite suddenly, there again.

Dean breathes out a sigh of relief. “Dude, I thought i’d lost you,” he almost smiles, sucking the blood from his wound - he figures it’s only a light scratch. “You’d think your freakishly tall height would be good for something... guess not.” He readjusts the shoulder strap around his chest, his neck, waiting for Sam to respond, or even turn around, but nothing happens. Dean frowns, wading through the mud to touch him gently, to turn him back around.

Sam suddenly dashes into the undergrowth, disappearing from sight entirely, and Dean has no choice but to chase after him. They’re not running, just walking incredibly fast, but it’s enough to keep him out of breath.

“Sam! Sam, slow down, would you? Why are you going so fast?” he calls out, hitting everything in front of him caused by Sam’s distressed wake. He kicks and claws his way through the woods, trying to keep up, but he can’t seem to do so. Sam is moving too fast. Dean can only suspect that he must have smelled or sensed something important.

The birds are singing out to him again, carrying along the trees. It makes him shudder, because the further they forge into the woods, the louder they seem to get, and the more the sunlight begins to ebb away. Dean swallows back his sudden sense of panic and tries to walk even faster.

Sam jerks his head around awkwardly, catching sight of his brother. “Keep up, Dean,” he says, twisting his neck forwards again, and Dean falters, but only for a second. He knows Sam, knows him like the back of his hand, but this doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t feel like him. The longer Dean looks, the more he notices it.

“I’m trying, but i’m the one carrying the ingredients here,” he replies, watching Sam, his long, drawn-out movement. He walks unnaturally, like he has to think where to bow his legs when he moves, and Dean shakes his head warily at it. Did he have a limp? A busted foot? Dean doesn’t remember him mentioning it back at the cabin. “... are you okay? You’re acting kinda nutty.”

Deeper into the woods now, away from the cabin, away from their reserve of weapons. Sure, Dean does have a firearm on him, but he doesn’t think it’ll do much good against whatever’s out here. Whatever he can feel on the back of his neck. It chills there like a cold sweat - that prickling sensation that something isn’t quite _right_ , and he tries to shuck it away. He knows he’s only being paranoid.

Slowly, Sam’s walk becomes more bow-legged, reaching out in an exaggerated way. Dean keeps his eyes pin-pointed on him, his clenched hands removing from the bag’s strap to hang at his sides.

“Sam... where are we going?” he asks, at last, feeling too distracted to do so earlier. 

He looks around, peering into the dampened foliage, boots squelching, his concern beginning to disappear. But it only makes way for doubt, and he suddenly slows his walk. Sam somehow senses this, creaking his neck back in a way that doesn’t look very normal, and his eyes glint in the speckled out sunlight.

“The lake,” he insists, but it’s without inflection. It comes across flat, like he’s reading something from a script, and Dean wants desperately to put the Sam Winchester back in him. All the moving bits and pieces that make him his stupid kid brother. 

An itch quickly surfaces at the mention of lake red devil, and it has Dean scratching at his body, attempting to gouge that sick, twisted feeling out of him. He can feel it like fire ants crawling over his skin, beneath his shirt, under his fingernails. He looks frantically to Sam, but he isn’t paying attention to him. He’s still walking in that uncanny way, leading them closer to the water’s edge.

“No, we - we can’t be near a water source, remember?” Dean recollects, swallowing, pretending that all Sam needs is to revisit his memory. He wipes at the hot sensation left by the fire ants, the whisper that comes to rest on him. “We don’t need to go there. We don’t.” The last words sound like a plea, and Dean shakes his head at how ridiculous it all is, how he sounds - but he doesn’t know how to fight it. He’s never dealt with something he couldn’t just shoot at. This is totally new to him.

The birds are singing even louder now, and it’s enough to stop him entirely. The more he listens, the more they sound like strung-out words, and he briefly wonders what they’re saying.

Sam is behind him somehow, his throat clicking and motioning the movement of breathing. “Why should we resist it?” he says wetly, and Dean realizes that he sounds just like everything else in this greenwood. The birds. The desperate cries he hears at night. The squeak of the cabin’s old stairs. It all sounds so wrong and stilted, like a recording playing over something that doesn’t match. 

Slowly, he moves his hand to perch on his gun. “Resist what? Sam you’re freaking me out, man,” he counters firmly, but he isn’t lying, and he hates that this meat-suit wearing son-of-a-bitch can probably smell it on him.

Suddenly, Sam lurches forward to wind his hand around his wrist, and Dean gasps, attempting to jerk out of his iron-clad grip. He can feel his heart hammering hard in his chest as he shouts, “hey, let go! Sam! Sam, stop!” Another tug, another pull - it seems almost wasted on whatever he’s contending with. He knows it isn’t Sam, but he can’t help the sting that moves through him when he catches his wry expression.

Through the leaves and the branches, the mud and heat, Sam tows him along, his hand wet on Dean’s skin. He smells like the bog edging-in around the lake, reeking and swarmed in flies. 

It’s not his Sam. It’s not _his_ Sam.

“Do you hear it calling your name, Dean? Do you hear it? Do you hear it calling?” he repeats, heaving, cackling, having lost Sam’s voice altogether. It sounds high-pitched now, with broken pauses half-way in between, and Dean can only compare it to a cat that talks or meows in that weird way. It sends a shiver down his neck. His eyes shoot around desperately for Castiel or Sam, his real brother, but they come up completely blank. The woods are a green smudge around him as they hurtle through it.

When they eventually approach a familiar wooden post, Dean begins to pull away, thrashing about in Sam’s hold, the duffel bag whipping up around him. It’s that twisted feeling again, and it envelops him when he catches sight of the quiet lake. 

“Sam! Come back to me!” Dean cries out. 

He isn’t sure if he’s calling to the thing in front of him or the Sam back at the cabin. 

Has Sam always been this? Has Dean not noticed for days that this wasn’t his brother?

With a monstrous grin, Sam draws him down the muddied embankment. Dean can’t wrestle against him anymore. He’s too strong, too frightening. Dean’s ganked plenty of things in the past, but his own flesh and blood brother seems to overshadow the line of morality. He can’t do that. Won’t do that. Even if it isn’t really him, he can’t bare the thought of shooting him in the head. Maybe whatever’s impersonating him knows this.

“You know what it wants,” Sam spits at him, water draining from his mouth, black and dirty, and Dean lets out a shout before suddenly being swept into the lake. The water surges up around him, shaping into bedroom walls, a blinking ceiling light, and Dean squeezes his eyes closed, gasping. The cold temperature startles him. When he surfaces again, Sam is still waiting on the embankment, but the more Dean blinks, the more he rearranges into something else. Something with peeling skin and hollowed-out eyes. “LISTEN!” it shrieks.

Dean goes under again, feeling his bed beneath him, the call of the woods and the empty cabin, crying out like a song. He wants to listen, but he doesn’t know how. Everything is just too loud, and the water is so incredibly cold. It’s so freezing cold.

When he emerges, Sam is up on the clearing, but it isn’t the hideous mutation that Dean has come to know. It looks like his brother, all wrinkled eyebrows and uncoordinated legs, climbing down the wet embankment. He flags him down unceremoniously, and Dean swallows the water caught in his throat.

“Dean? What the hell are you doing over here?” he asks incredulously, approaching him. He’s still wearing what they’d changed into back at the cabin.

Dean peers around cautiously, uncertain whether or not to trust the Sam in front of him, blinking the muddied water out of his eyes. It tracks down his face like grot. “Sam?” he says, quiet, unmoving, and Sam scratches at his head, looking totally bewildered. Dean doesn’t blame him. 

“Uh, yeah, who else?” Sam replies, casting his eyes down to Dean’s boots, pointing at them. “Why are you standing in the water?”

Dean’s about to protest that his whole body is, in fact, in the water, but finds himself standing in an upright position, the heat glaring down on him. His hair is dry. His clothes are dry, if not a little bit hot, and his duffel bag is still leaning against where it should be. He quickly changes his hands over to examine them, unable to say anything remotely encouraging to put Sam’s concerned mind at ease. 

Wasn’t he just in the water? His head had gone under, he remembers that. It was only a few seconds ago.

Dean lifts his leg from where he’s standing ankle-deep in the lake and shakes his head. “I-” he starts, unsure of his own bruised memory, and Sam reaches a hand out for him to catch.

“Are you okay?” he presses softly. Slowly, he eases Dean out of the water, probing him with anxious looks, which only overwhelms Dean even more, and rests a hand on his shoulder. Dean takes a moment to consider his green environment, the dampness in the air and the heat on his neck. It all feels the same. Even the chilled sensation he usually gets when he’s around the lake is gone completely, and it’s as if he feels almost... normal again, though he doesn’t say this to Sam. That would imply that he wasn’t normal before, and he isn’t ready to explore that with him.

“Yeah, yeah i’m fine. I think I just blanked for a moment and must have fallen in,” he says, recovering, sounding incredibly unconvincing. “Are we... are we still doing that ritual?”

Thanks to his weird funk, he has no idea what’s real and what isn’t.

Sam removes his hand from Dean’s shoulder to swat at a mosquito on his skin. “Well, we were, up until you disappeared on me. God Dean, I spent like an hour trying to find you out here,” he very nearly laughs. Dean only frowns at him, glancing up at the blinking sun. It looks a little lower in the sky now.

“An hour?” he repeats quietly, reluctantly. It doesn’t sound right, seeing as though he couldn’t have been gone for more than fifteen minutes, but the anxious look impressed onto Sam’s face appears to prove otherwise. Gently, he touches at his forehead, massaging everything back into it’s spot.

Sam gulps. “Dude, are you sure you’re okay? I mean, maybe we should come back tom-”

“No, let’s do it now. We’re doing it now.” Dean parts through him then, marching up the slippery embankment and towards the clearing, and Sam makes quick effort of scampering up after him. He casts him a wary look as they walk, moving through trees and compact shrubbery, away from the lake. Dean knows he wants to say something - anything that will bring light to Dean’s behavior over the past few days, but he keeps quiet instead, squelching behind him. 

They seek out a spot for the spell in silence.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the summoning ritual doesn’t go to plan.

Sure, they have the right ingredients for it, and Sam’s able to read Bobby’s incantation in that clear-cut way he does, but it isn’t enough. Enough to dig up whatever they’d expected to find. Sam even divvies out more orange blossom and bottled water, remaining completely pensive when nothing interesting happens. No gust of wind or exciting explosion.

Dean toes at the ground when Sam slings through his notepad, looking exhausted. “Did I say something wrong? I swear that’s how you pronounce it... eos pariter... no wait, eos pareeter? I don’t...” he mutters.

Dean isn’t really listening. Somehow he’d already known that the ritual wasn’t going to work, and he wishes that he hadn’t put so much stock into it. It was almost stupid to believe that whatever was out in these woods could be summoned using a pendulum and a few items from the supermarket, because this wasn't like every other monster they've ever hunted. No... whatever it was, it was much bigger - much scarier - than the both of them, and it demanded their attention. But not like this. Not in any way where Sam or Dean had the upper hand.

Dean hates that he can feel it, whatever it is. Because it isn’t really a beast - something they could just shoot blindly at. It was more than that. A feeling, a way of being, sitting in his head. In his hands, his blood. Something that just _was_.

And he knows they can’t contend with something like that.

* * *

Dean steps out onto the porch that evening, listening to the movement of the trees, the leaves, the branches, caressing the top of the cabin. They pat against the tin roof, and he tunes into the sound, breathing in the refreshing night air. It isn’t dark out yet, but the sun has lowered just enough to cast a gleaming pink canopy over the sky.

Sam is still inside hatching their next meal, and Dean flinches at the ring caused by a falling pot or pan. Sam quickly shouts out that he’s okay and resumes to hitting something against the kitchen top. It isn’t a comforting sound, but Dean can’t find it in him to fret about it. He appreciates that Sam is trying to make this a home for them, no matter how Dean feels towards the old cabin, and is willing to do right by it. They’ve never had the satisfaction of being able to eat real food together, or to watch the sunlight wane away. To drink and laugh and to wake up... sort of well-rested, and it’s so new. It’s also incredibly inviting, and Dean feels guilty that he doesn’t feel as good as he wishes he could.

This should be his dream, and it _totally_ is, but he just can’t seem to find purchase in it. Not here. Not in these woods or in this washed-out town. He can’t seem to loosen up like Sam or Castiel, always on-guard, always checking to see if their reserve of weapons are still where they’d stashed them. That twisted feeling never really goes away, but at least it’s eased up a bit. His mind briefly casts to the lake, the sludge and cold water, the incident with Sam, and he ropes it back in again, filing it away for some later nightmare. At least there he has the higher ground.

A creak suddenly crops up behind him, followed by a loud whooshing sound, and Dean doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. He figures Sam would have sent someone out here to poke and prod at him eventually, but not this soon. Castiel emerges beside him, and they stand quietly, looking out into the open woods. They’re eerily hushed tonight - no cries or singing, and Dean isn’t sure if he prefers it this way or not. It leaves too much room for his own thoughts to come inching back inside.

“My Father always was a perfectionist when it came to his Creation,” Castiel says, at last, disrupting the quiet, “I’d like to think he did a good job of this place... it’s very beautiful, peaceful.” Dean can hear the swishing of his coat, the movement of his fingers against the old porch wood, but he doesn’t stay on it much. He’s caught by the wet grass that climbs and reaches out along the cabin’s front steps, just touching his boots. He crunches down on it. “But you don’t agree with my sentiment, do you?” Cas turns to look at him knowingly.

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that.

Slowly, he grinds his boot further into the porch. “Cas I dont-”

“You’re troubled by these woods. Sam told me what happened today, about you getting lost in them. Tell me Dean, what did you see out there?” Cas probes, keeping his eyes pin-pointed on him, and Dean pauses, feeling almost overwhelmed by the weight of the question. How could he explain anything he saw out there? What he’s been feeling for the past few days? He’s not sure he even has the words to say, and he definitely doesn’t want to explore it right now, not with Castiel hovering over him like some kind of shrink - God, he’s almost as suffocating as Sam.

Dean chooses to shrug. “Like I said, I didn’t see anything. I just tuned out or something,” he explains, though Castiel doesn’t look very convinced. Dean boils down his own lack of persuasion to his disinterest in the conversation; scratching tiredly at his neck, his arm. He doesn’t want to talk about it - any of it - and the sooner he can get Castiel to magic out of here, the better. It might even get Sam off his back, too.

Cas only sighs, looking discouraged. “I would have thought you could trust me,” he says gravely.

It’s much darker now, and a swinging light bulb overhead blinks to life. It throws a yellow gleam over them, but it doesn’t reach out much further than that, leaving the woods in a cold, black window.

“Dude, I do trust you, i’m just tired and Sam keeps looking at me like I’ve got five heads, okay? Nothing happened out there, so just drop it,” Dean bites, but it isn’t with heart. He knows they’re only looking out for him, so he can’t be too upset about it. Although he does wish Castiel would give him some space - both figuratively and literally. He’s almost standing on his shoes.

The porch creaks when Castiel moves to rest a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean stirs under his comforting touch, calming somewhat. “We are only trying to do what’s best for you, Dean. If you want to walk away from this case, that’s okay. There is no shame in it,” he assures gruffly, considering the cabin, and for a moment, Dean wonders if Cas also shares in his apprehension for the old homestead. “You have to look out for yourself first.”

Dean doesn’t take very well to this, and he immediately shucks Cas’ hand away, a coldness overcoming him. What does he know about what Dean can and can't handle?

“Castiel, if you think some stupid woods are going to scare me, then you don’t know me at all,” he spits at him, resuming his stony stare into the woods. 

Castiel pauses then, lowering his hand from his shoulder, glancing at him. It looks like he wants to say something important, something that might put Dean’s troubled mind to rest, but he remains quiet instead, looking out into the dark night. Insects fly around them, captivated by the glowing light bulb overhead. 

“Perhaps not,” Cas decides, at last, setting out for the mesh-door. It sings when he pries it open, a stream of light following with it, and he moves to look pointedly at Dean, appearing disturbed. “Dinner is inside if you feel like eating.”

He doesn't.

“Whatever, thanks,” Dean replies hotly. After today’s incident, he doubts he'll ever feel like eating again. He has plenty to chew over in his mind already; too many thoughts and feelings he doesn’t know where to put away, and it’s beginning to make his head throb.

Castiel nods, pressing his fingers into the woodwork. Dean can feel him watching him when he says, “feel better, Dean,”, before disappearing back into the warm cabin.

Finally, Dean is alone.


End file.
